


Stop...

by AgustD_In_The_Making24



Series: Vent Fics [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood, Dezzer is technically an Eddsworld OC but none of the EW characters show up in this so..., Gore, I'm feeling really bad, It's 1:30 right now, Might as well write some gore, Vomit, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 11:27:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11012493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgustD_In_The_Making24/pseuds/AgustD_In_The_Making24
Summary: Dez is feeling...down. There's only one way to fix this problem. Pain. He knows it. It helps. It helps him sleep at night, and he feels good waking up in the morning. But...What if he doesn't want to wake up in the morning?





	Stop...

**Author's Note:**

> Hahahaha too much shit is happening. My online friends are dealing with heavy shit and it makes me feel worse about myself knowing that I'm being a selfish bitch and worrying more about myself, and how I need to sleep, and how I need to eat. Other people matter way more. I don't know what to say.

Slow burning. A searing pain. A delicious end. It all sounded so good to Dez. He enjoyed the feeling of vomit flowing up from his throat, coating a small space of the dark concrete below him. It felt amazing to see the splatters of blood mixed with the watery vomit. He hadn't properly eaten in days. It made him feel good. He'd get thinner, this way. At it made him feel even better, seeing the blood. It made him feel amazing. More.  _More._ He wanted to see more. To know that he was feeling something, to know that he would make a stain on the floor beneath him, one that he would be able to see when he mopped up the mess in the morning. He never did the same thing, no. He wasn't  _that_ predictable. The knife was nearby, yes. But so was the medicine. And the noose. And...The phone. But he wouldn't be using that anytime soon. He didn't need it. He never did. No one really desired to assist in his..'fun', but he didn't want any help, anyways. He enjoyed these sessions, in the dark recesses of his basement, the feeling of his bare knees on the cold concrete. Yes, he preferred to do these sessions while lacking clothing. It made him feel better to not have to ruin any shirts when he decided it would be a nice time to--oh, he's already done it. The knife he has chosen this time, it seems. He shoved a finger down his throat, the taste of bile already dominating his mouth when the watery liquid stung his throat for the third...maybe fourth time since he'd started. He shuddered, spitting out some more of the thick fluid. He dragged his hand over the wound on his stomach...Not deep enough, he seemed to decide, for he drove the knife in deeper and dragged it right back along the area. He couldn't go too far. He didn't want to spoil the fun with nasty stomach acid all over his precious, vomit-and-bloodstained concrete flooring. 

"Mmmgh..." Oh. The first noise to come out of the Italian.

A grunt and hiss mixed, it seemed. He slid the knife out slowly, watching blood drip down his lower stomach, onto his flaccid cock. He got absolutely zero pleasure from these sessions. Only someone he loved could bring him pleasure...Loved...Love...He could feel tears coagulate with this mess of vomit and blood. Love. he shook, the knife-wielding hand slipping and slicing into his right thigh. He choked on a sob. Oh god. Of course, this twisted boy loved. The one he loved...Had someone. It crushed his heart to see his love smile and laugh with their real lover. He dug his fingers into the wound on his thigh, crying and digging his fingers in deeper. He didn't want to live like this. Love was for people who were soft. People who couldn't handle pain. Dezzer...Could handle pain, that was for sure. His sessions were definitely not daily, but bi-daily. Sometimes only bi-weekly, depending on how hard he was on himself the previous time. He wailed into the cold, emptiness of his basement. He didn't enjoy the tightness of his stinging throat, the way he couldn't force the overflow of tears made him curse and yank his fingers from his wound, bringing the knife up to his neck. Do it.  _Do it. **Do it. ~~Don't~~ Do it!! **_...

.

.

.

"Local man found dead in his basement! Reporters say he had self-inflicted wounds on him, and was found with vomit next to him. More at eight." A news-anchor droned on, the television turned on a low volume as the man on the screen began speaking of politics. Dezzer Brown sat on the couch, curled up in a blanket, a mug of hot chocolate next to him, wounds tended to, love forgotten for the moment. For every session he did...a calm down was always needed. Dez is not a strongly-willed man. He couldn't kill himself. That would be going too far. He couldn't- no- he  **wouldn't**. He prefers to have his sessions in his basement, when all is quiet, and he can feel nothing but the slash of a knife and the cold concrete beneath him, and the stinging sensation of vomit coming up his throat. He just prefers it that way. 

.

.

.

Dezzer Brown sits in his basement, cold concrete under him, he can feel it on his bare knees. A knife, rope, and phone are near him. He will never use the phone. He doesn't like people knowing about his...'sessions'...

 


End file.
